Chapter 5
The silence stretching across the grand salon was absolute and apocalyptic. The fifty elite guests, capos, and relatives remained paralyzed on the burgundy velvet sofas, the festive Christmas Eve reception completely obliterated by the exposure of such petty, calculated cruelty. Reid Ashford’s tattooed hand remained resting firmly on Mara’s shoulder, a stark visual claiming of the maid over the high-society fiancée.
Reid did not break his cold, unwavering stare from Camille. He raised his free hand, the heavy family signet ring catching the light from the crystal chandeliers, and made a single, subtle gesture to his lead enforcer standing by the double doors.
"Clear the room," Reid commanded, his deep voice echoing across the gilded mirrors and marble surfaces. "Everyone who does not carry the Ashford name, or work in my personal security detail, will vacate this salon immediately."
Chairs scraped frantically against the polished marble floors. The elite guests, eager to escape the blast radius of the mafia boss's impending wrath, scrambled toward the exits. They abandoned their crystal glasses and festive cheer, keeping their eyes averted from the terrifying scene at the fireplace. No one dared to speak. No one dared to look back.
"Reid, you are making a scene," Camille hissed, attempting to salvage her dignity as the room rapidly emptied. "My family will hear of this. The Drake syndicate will not tolerate this level of public disrespect over a servant."
"Do not speak to me of respect," Reid replied, his voice dropping an octave, shaking the very air.
Within ninety seconds, the sprawling room was entirely empty of guests. The only people remaining were Reid, Camille, Mara, Poppy, and the heavy security detail standing silently by the walls. The bright, airy luminosity of the room now illuminated only the raw, ugly truth of the betrayal.
Reid finally broke eye contact with Camille. He looked down at Mara, his expression softening for a fraction of a second. The gentle maid was trembling violently, her delicate hands still clutching his daughter and the ruined bear.
"Mara," Reid said, his tone shifting into a register of profound, quiet authority. "Take Poppy upstairs to my private quarters. Lock the doors. Allow no one inside but my personal guard."
"Yes, Mr. Ashford," Mara whispered, her voice shaking with adrenaline and grief. She gently took the six-year-old girl’s hand, offering her a small, watery smile. "Come along, Poppy. Let's go upstairs."
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As the maid and the child hurried out of the room, their footsteps echoing softly against the marble, Reid turned his full, terrifying attention back to the woman in the emerald gown. He slowly lowered his hand from where it had rested on Mara's shoulder.
"Now," Reid said, taking a slow, predatory step toward Camille, the crackling fireplace casting violent shadows across his angular face. "You are going to explain to me why you thought you could execute psychological warfare against a child and a maid in my home."
